Mine , all mine

I remember like it is all happening now . He was six months old then and I would play with him . Not as a mother who plays with her child but more as an adolescent girl play acting at being a mother. I would love to bathe him and massage him . His tender soft body would arouse a deep sense of belonging and of proving that everything was fitted perfectly in my female body to carry out the task of giving birth . The prime task . Later on I would begin to have serious doubts on such linear thinking and as I grew, so layers of complicated perception added themselves on my mind , making such innocent joys a thing of rarity. But at that time I was constantly astonished to witness the living proof of my being whole , complete.The simple pleasurable task of looking after him gave me a great sense of joy ..his heavy fragrant weight settling on my chest when he slept, slung lopsided on my shoulders.

It was the waking in the nights , his shrill colic pain cries erupting suddenly , the strange red nappy rashes that made him fretful , the washing of huge bundles of soiled nappies and putting them on the clothesline , one after the other , till the terrace resembled an arena of triangular fluttering flags , the heavy pungent smell of urine soaked dirty clothes and bed rugs , the mixing of the baby formula early in the morning , the crazy routine of the day and snatching sleep like a deprived depraved junkie ..all these made me go berserk. But amidst all this frenzy , one moment I would find myself looking at him and finding suddenly like a huge blob of sunshine , his face wreathing in such beautiful radiant smile of recognition . And my heart would twist. Twist in such a sweet melody of love , that it would lodge itself in my throat in a huge big lump of emotion and I would pick him up and gather him close to my heart. My flesh and blood. Mine , all mine.

The third eye journey

It moves and rolls beneath the skin . The surface undulates ..small waves then rides over minor bumps and goose , trembles in miniature volcanic spasms , along the scalp, tingles and lingers for a breath moment , then behind the ears , at the back of the neck in the small feather hair then along the dimpled spine . the ridges and curves of the buttocks , then bifurcates like a river tributary along the back of the thigh , on the dimpled soft flesh at the back of the knee , on the indentations of the instep , the arch of the sole and touches the big toe , the small toe before curving on to the front , riding the trough now like a fast current , along the upper body , the chin and the eyes , the tip of the nose , settles there for a fraction then like a receding wave slowly moves back to the navel and in a frenzied whirlpool empties deep into it. Then like a living being beats slowly harmoniously in the pit . The lotus flower love blooming in the centre and the third wisdom eye bang in the centre of the forehead.

The cuckoo flew out

The days were beginning to get warm. A wind blew all the time whistling and whooshing past the window grill , lifting and swirling the dead rust leaves in a maddening eddy of one minute glory before settling them tamely down on the streets below. The wind chime, hung in a corner in the balcony, tinkled merrily in an excited chatter . The room was silent . The walls watched in hushed silence the body which lay supine on the mat. The naked torso shone with a matt dim shine , the row of tiny dimples along the ridge of spine and a lone flea hovered daintily above them.

His soul shimmered and trembled within the confines of the body , strained to get out and touch the sky , the trees , the pigeons , the little dark nook in the awning. He lay still , still in a tense strain. As if lying still he could let the soul fly away to far distant land and he would be connected to it through a thin invisible thread and thus be able to do all that he had ever wanted. So , lying absolutely still was the only way he could engage in intense activity.He counted seconds and then minutes. A haze rose above his eyes . He could see small black dots sliding past his cornea like minute rain drops. His breath came shallow then deep. Now. He thought . It is now .

His body creaked and then a window opened and the cuckoo flew out. The chime announced twelve.

It was time to get up and get on with the business of living.

The Dream

I dream often these days. The nights are punctuated with sweat filled nightmares , not the sort that you dream in your childhood with a morbid terror , but more like viewing some tragedy from a bystander's view , detached , dry but filling your heart with slow seeping cold. Everytime I get up and sip water , tepid and laced with an iron taste . Most likely the strong dry iron taste of my distaste at having to go through something which has no basis except in some deep layers of my subconscious. The dreams don't tell me anything. They are small hazy images , blurring from virtual to real without any logic or reason. Like for instance , yesterday I dreamt of huge blood clots in funny irregular shapes all over , on the floor , on the walls , on the sofa chair . Sometimes during the day while dealing with routine mundane things of everyday living , they jumped up suudenly with a clear sharp focus . What was I aborting ? Something which had nestled deep within my heart , took shape , form and body but now was wanted no more. I never cried for it in my dream . It is now that when I am completely awake a keening wail rises silently , pushing all else towards the periphery. I laugh and talk and eat and do other thousand things which people do everyday , while the dream , the golden dream slowly aborts itself.

So love decays

I stand in all ugliness in the bottom of murakami's well . You draw a line , a brush stroke and the staircase opens up . The dream song marches ahead , climbs the stairs and vanishes into thin air. I had wanted to write sensuous love songs instead end up writing ugly stories which no one will read . The words will rot and spread their odour , sometimes , may be when they are still within my throat , in my mouth and have not yet traveled to the tip of my fingers , to come down sliding on the blue paper. They will rot , as must all things which are alive and then no more. So love decays.

Begin..one more time

Someone cleaves my head into two

and I remember the woman cutting grass with a sickle

such a whoosh all the time

I ask the old man to stop spinning the wheel

for a while

while I take a breath

take a long deep breath

and begin the day

Torn cloth memories

My mother says You cannot have a memory when you were two years old. My brother was born exactly two years after me and his birth sent me in a shock, a shock of stunned silence. My father after three days of witnessing my numbness took me away on a tour .

- It will distract her.

And all I remember is a pink purple bead bracelet that he bought for me. The cheap beads shone irridiscently , shimmering with rainbow hues , a little bit like the shiny patina of peacock blue and greens of dripped petrol from tired old buses and jeeps in small puddles winding through pot holed dusty roads .He had wound the bracelet along my tiny delicate wrists with love. A hexagonal bead bracelet held together with elastic threads bought from the tiny shop. We had stayed in a dak bungalow with green shutters and cool high ceiling roofs , an ancient fan hanging from the thick roof beam, the vast green lawns with tea rose bushes along the drive way . But I don't remember any of those details. All that I remember with a sharp clear eye is the bead bracelet. The hexagonal shape and the intense pleasure of owning somethig so out of this world . I also remember the feel of the beads and the pleasure driving all else away from my mind.

My mother says you can't have memories when that young. And I say maybe I can . Maybe it never happened really , maybe it happened only in some intricate layers of my mind , like a piece of cloth torn by being caught against the rusted fence , torn and sticking out and flutterig always in my mind. I don't know but maybe it really happened. My father always smiles mysteriously at this but never says a word.